


Less Travelled By

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nonbinary Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 13:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11276490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: "What is a friend? I will tell you... it is someone with whom you dare to be yourself." - Frank Crane.When Fitz has something he needs to think through, he can always rely on Jemma for help, advice and love.





	Less Travelled By

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Nonbinary Fitz, who prefers Fitz because it's gender neutral & uses neutral pronouns. Masculine pronouns are also used here as Fitz is on a bit of a journey of self-discovery.
> 
> Rated T, mainly for some mildly angsty but vague references to his past & the influence of his father, and some internalised transphobia. It's a hurt/comforty fic with a happy ending though I promise :)

“Jemma?” Fitz asked. “What’s being a girl like?”

He was lying on her bed, playing with some kind of beanie toy – a hacky sack, perhaps. He tossed it into the air and caught it, completely unfazed by the fact that she’d only just arrived in her own dorm room. 

“Well, I don’t know,” Jemma offered, thoughtful and just as unfazed as she divested herself of her bags and coat. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Except for- well you know, all the bleeding, and the catcalling, and the side-eyes a sixteen-year-old doctoral candidate inevitably gets. But that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?” 

“No,” Fitz agreed. “I mean really. In your heart. In your soul. What’s it like?” 

“That, I don’t know. If it helps, I don’t think anyone really does. There’s a lot we don’t know, about genes, about gender, about the bottom of the ocean… we scientists aren’t going to run out of work any time soon.” 

“We’ll just run out of funds first.” Fitz snorted, but his mind was elsewhere. He’d stopped tossing the hacky sack now, and was instead kneading it in his hands. Curious, Jemma put the kettle on, and pulled the leftovers of her lunch from her bag to finish off at the little multipurpose table halfway between the bench (that ambitiously called itself a kitchenette) and the bed. She watched Fitz silently ruminate for a while as she ate, but when the kettle had finished boiling, he sat up.

“Why d’you ask?” Jemma wondered. “They haven’t still got you doing core units in public health or something have they?” 

“Nah.” Fitz shrugged, but Jemma got the sense that he was avoiding her eyes on purpose. “This is more for, um. Personal research.” 

“Okay.” She poured the tea as unassumingly as possible. “What’s being a boy like then?” 

Fitz shifted in his seat as if she’d just said something uncomfortable. Jemma frowned. Fitz sighed, and the frustrations that had been hovering below the surface became suddenly more evident in his voice and body language. Muscles tense, Fitz clenched the hacky sack, and tried to explain – to it, rather than to her. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think about it much either, usually, but recently I have been and I think maybe – I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t even really feel… I mean, I know I’m different from a lot of guys around. But not all guys are aggressive, testosterone-fuelled, overcompetitive dingbats are they? There must be some normal guys out there.” 

“There are,” Jemma assured him. “Though unfortunately for the both of us, they tend to be older. Hormones are powerful things.”

Fitz grimaced. Jemma grimaced back, in sympathy. Then, 

“You said you feel different?” she asked. “How so?” 

“Well, you know, I’m… softer, I guess, than most guys.”

“That’s not a bad thing, Fitz.” 

Fitz shifted again, and waved her off, his whole body wringing. That was another conversation, another time, another life he didn’t like to think about.

“It’s not that. It’s not gender roles or anything, that’s not what I mean. I mean – what I mean is,” he struggled to stay on track; to separate the one from the other, the past from the present, the questions from the expectations. “I just don’t relate to any of the guys. I’ve tried talking to engineering, to the AV guys, even the sport guys – I’m actually not half bad at football. Most of the time we get along alright but I just… don’t really relate.”

“Maybe it’s just because they hate talking about their feelings,” Jemma suggested. Fitz scowled, but when he spoke, his voice was raw.

“Don’t make fun. I’m serious. I feel really – really alone, and I’m trying, and the harder I try the more it feels like there’s something… wrong. With me. Like I don’t fit, somehow. It’s like homesickness all over again. It’s been weeks and weeks and I don’t know what to do anymore.” 

Jemma hummed in sympathy. 

“Why don’t you come have lunch with me and Pen and Clarissa on Monday? They do physics, I’m sure they’d love to talk rockets or something with you. Maybe this particular cohort of guy friends just aren’t for you.” 

“That’s another thing though, isn’t it?” Fitz objected. “If all my closest friends are girls, what does that say about me?” 

“Ugh, Fitz.” Jemma snorted, offended, and not entirely faking it. 

Fitz hung his head. Of course, he hadn’t meant to devalue her by it, but it was a difficult and confusing reality to face. Men did not like him. He was not one of them. It wasn’t just this cohort; it was, apparently, every man he’d ever known with any degree of intimacy. All of them seemed to rub him the wrong way, or else he did them. Was it still his father on his mind? Fitz had spent hours wondering over it. After all these years, did he still have alarm bells set up in every cell of his being, to warn him that every man would judge him the same way? Was he doomed to forever be alone and distrustful and stuck in his past? It certainly felt like it, at times like these. 

Lost in his thoughts, Fitz stared absently down at the hackey sack, still clenched in his fist. After a while, Jemma came to sit by him on the bed. She replaced his fierce grip on the hacky sack with a warmer, lighter touch on a mug of tea. He took a deep breath, pulling himself back into the room.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about Dad.” 

“That’s okay,” Jemma assured him, “just don’t let him get to you. This whole thing, this self exploration? It’s perfectly natural, Fitz. Even if nothing comes of it in the end. We’re young adults; we’re becoming ourselves. Questioning what that means is very normal. Stressing about it, unfortunately, is quite normal too.”

“I know,” Fitz muttered. 

“And if do you want to – to look into some things about unconventional gender experiences, I’d be happy to help you,” Jemma added. 

Fitz recoiled instantly.

“No, there’s nothing _wrong_ with me,” he insisted, shoving the thought away. He sprung to his feet, pacing away from her, waving Jemma’s gaze off his back with more desperation than anything else. “I’m not like that, I’m not going to let – _him_ leaving mess me up like that. I’m fine. I’m not less of a man because of my Mum. She’s only ever done good for me. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Still sitting on the bed where he had left her, but a little more forlorn, Jemma whispered, 

“I never said there was.” 

Fitz stopped in his tracks, a few feet away. He took note of his body; shoulders tense, breath short, arms crossed defensively. He took note of the words that had just passed his lips, and of the blinding fear and rage that had taken a hold of him and made him speak them. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice gravelled. “I know that.”

He wanted to say _I didn’t mean that,_ but he knew he did. In some round about way, some part of him hated it. Hated the thought that he could be different. Hated himself. His arms uncrossed, and wrapped around himself instead. Heat flushed his face and tears of frustration, fear and vulnerability tried to force their way out. Jemma got up at last, and crossed over to him, and rested her own hand gently on his protective arms. 

“I want you to know that you’re safe with me, Fitz,” she assured him. “I’ll keep your secrets and I’ll support you and I’ll be here for you, no matter what. I’m not going to hurt you or abandon you. I’m with you. Okay?” 

Fitz, stuck for words, nodded. Jemma smiled gently.

“Would you like a hug?” 

He nodded again, and she embraced him, cradling him gently in her arms. Eventually, he took a deep breath and let it go, and they both felt some of the weight of the room lift.

“Do you want to keep talking about it?” Jemma offered. 

“D’you think it’ll help?” Fitz responded meekly. 

“Yes I do,” Jemma said. “I think that finding an answer, even if it’s not the right one yet, will help you clear some of that confusion.” 

 _Will get his hold off of you,_ was what she wanted to say, her blood boiling at the thought of how pervasive his father’s control truly was, but in the greater mission of turning Fitz’s thoughts away from his past wherever possible, she decided not to add that on.

“Okay,” Fitz agreed. “What do you think is the answer, then?” 

Jemma smiled. 

“That, I think I do know. Obviously, I can’t read your mind, but here, have a look at this. Hang on.” She pulled her laptop out of its bag, and searched, and flicked through a few pages before she found what she’d been looking for. By the time she handed it over to Fitz, there were several tabs open, labelled things like, _Beyond the Binary, Non-Western Genders, Agender,_ and _Which Non-Binary Are You?_ Scanning through them, Fitz’s jaw dropped.

“What? How did you find all these?” 

“I did a Queer Studies class in university. The terminology is changing all the time, and the possibilities are expanding rapidly since I did it, but the principles are largely the same. Thousands of people – hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions around the world - don’t relate to the typical binary experience, Fitz. You’re not alone.” 

“But… surely,” Fitz wondered, “it must be something to do with how I was raised, right? It’s not - you know, a real thing. Surely.” 

Jemma shrugged. 

“Isn’t everything to do with how we were raised? Our accents, the way we dress, what we’ve studied? In fact, it’s plausible that being raised in such a…” _violent, aggressive,_ she pushed past them “- strictly enforced binary world like you were could have actually had the opposite effect. It wouldn’t be unheard of. For example, the majority of people raised in a strictly religious household change religions or become atheistic once no longer bound by that household. It may be that your sense of ‘maleness’ and ‘femaleness’ is so strongly associated with gender _roles_ that you may not relate to a less categorical gender experience. It’s quite logical really. As, by your own understanding, you fall outside of those categories, your brain is telling you that you’re not either of them. The only option then is to find a third, or opt out of the system altogether.” 

Fitz nodded, slowly. 

“That… makes sense,” he acknowledged. “I didn’t expect so much of a Nurture argument out of you, though, Miss Biologist.” 

“Bio- _chemist_ ,” she corrected, “but I can give you a few nature arguments if you like. The most likely of which, of course, is that you were born this way – whatever way that is - and just haven’t had a chance to start properly exploring it until now. Maybe your unconventional upbringing feeds into it, or maybe it is simply a confusing coincidence on top of an unconventional, internal, and independent gender situation. Either way, in my opinion, it’s something worth looking into.” 

“Worth looking into?” Fitz repeated, his eyes drawn back to the treasure trove of answers she’d laid out before him. Curiosity and an insatiable sense of rightness were drowning out his fears, and his father’s control. “This is incredible.” 

Entranced, he returned to Jemma’s bed and set himself up, scrolling and reading and occasionally commenting as he stumbled across phrases he liked or puzzled over. Jemma struggled to keep her smile restrained in its radiance. She hadn’t been expecting this much of a turnaround in Fitz’s mood, but she supposed it was the insecurity that got to him most of all. Learning that his experiences were not isolated, not faked, not hollow, had him riding a high of self-validation that memories of his father could not, in this moment, touch. Jemma set about some busywork – eating, cleaning, and reading – while Fitz explored, until finally he closed the lid of her laptop with a satisfied, somewhat declaratory sigh. 

“Amazing,” he said, before Jemma’s words made it out: 

“What did you think?” 

“It’s a lot to think about, but it feels right.” The sweetness of victory could be heard in his voice; seen in his eyes. “Thank you so much for showing me all this, Jemma.” 

“I just opened a door,” Jemma objected. “You were the one who walked through it.”

“But I wouldn’t have done,” Fitz insisted, “without you.” 

He blushed a little, and so did she. As close as they were, they didn’t often share explicit personal feelings. 

“So,” Jemma said, pushing on. “Have you decided anything yet?” 

“That Leopold is a terrible name?” Fitz replied. “I like Fitz. It’s just better, but it’s also gender neutral, which I like. Although, I think this whole ‘FitzSimmons’ business could get confusing.”

“Well, I hardly think ‘Jemmapold’ was going to take off anyway, now was it,” Jemma remarked. Fitz grinned. 

“The rest, I guess,” he continued. “I’ll take it as it comes. Although, I wouldn’t mind investing in some of those loose-knit cardigans.”

“I have a giftcard,” Jemma offered. “I’ll set you up. And – what about pronouns? Do you have a preference?” 

His/their hands looked for something to fiddle with, and his/their face twisted around the words a little. It still felt a little radical. But radically himself. Themself? They took a deep breath. 

“Yeah, you know, actually,” they stammered, their voice squeaking a little. “I think I prefer neutral pronouns. They/their. It sort of – it reduces that pressure I feel? To conform?” 

To Fitz’s relief, Jemma nodded.

“Sure. I’ll do my best to use them instead, then. Around other people, too?”

“I mean, if it’s not too hard?” they requested. “Use your discretion, I guess.”

“Of course,” Jemma agreed. “Now, is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

Fitz cleared their throat, steadying their voice against the strain of puberty and nerves. 

“No,” they said, once they were sure they’d pulled themself together. “No, I think that’s it for now. Thanks, Jemma.” 

“Existential crises are all in a day’s work,” she assured them, beaming gently. “If anything else comes up, you just let me know, okay?”

Fitz groaned – a long, melodramatic groan. Jemma hesitated. 

“What?” she asked.

“I forgot to hand in that bloody grant application!” they lamented. “Ah well, I’ll just have to go in early tomorrow.” 

“Or we could go right now,” Jemma suggested. “We could use the walk, it would be good to get some fresh air.” 

Fitz looked unconvinced, until she added:

“… and I think that new donut place has opened up on the corner.” 

Fitz sprung to their feet, and Jemma almost laughed. Whether it was their age or innate Fitz-ness or both, they had the lanky awkwardness of movement of a baby giraffe. Same old Fitz. She kept this to herself, in case Fitz took it as implying they’d ever been anything but the same old Fitz, and followed them out the door, purse and keys in hand.


End file.
